You Can't Go Home Again
by Simon920
Summary: Dick takes a summer job with the circus.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**You Can't Go Home Again**

"So it could be another two months until I get my posting?"

"Two or three, but you could get lucky."

"But..."

"Hey kid, look. I know guys who would kill to be in your position. You have at least two months; go home, take a trip, hang out with your girl, write a book, play with your dog—whatever. Have some fun while you can."

"...'Sounds great." Dick Grayson, new graduated from the Bludhaven Police Academy pushed down his frustration and wondered what he'd do now. It wasn't that he didn't have ways to fill his time, no that wasn't it. The question was what he'd actually decide to do; he could work with Bruce at Wayne Enterprises which would make Bruce happy but likely bore Dick stiff. He could work with the Titans or Outsiders or even the Justice League and might well do that if anything interesting came up.

Or he could take the new Ninja across country, maybe fly over to Europe and do some visiting while he was at it.

He could sit down and actually write out his journal, fill in the blank pages he'd been putting off and get closer to his vague idea of someday writing his memoirs if he lived that long.

He could clean his apartment, that would take a while.

Nah.

He could make a call and take up that offer to train with the US Gymnastics team out in Colorado for a few weeks. That might be fun and he hadn't really concentrated on his moves for a while now, just pure movement without throwing in dodging bullets Movement for movement's sake.

Maybe.

So—what did he _want _to do? That was the question. Sure, he could work cases either with or without some of the others in the community but, well, he could really use a break and who knew when he'd get another chance to kick back and see where the winds took him?

He rode the bike back to his apartment, avoiding Clancy on his way in, let himself into his place (and he really liked having his own place), tossed his jacket on a chair, toed off his shoes and threw himself onto the old couch. A few minutes later, Chinese food ordered and expected in twenty minutes or so, he—as his mother would say—put his thinking cap on.

He turned on the TV, catching the middle of the local evening news.

There it was.

The answer.

It was like a sign from God. Or something.

It was obvious the second the first image came on the screen. He had his answer and he knew it the instant the background pictures came on. The circus was in town for a week with shots of the elephants walking down the street to Knights Sports Arena.

This was it. It was perfect and as soon as the decision was realized Dick wanted this with all his heart and soul. He wanted to tour with the circus again, spend the summer flying for a crowd, listening to the music and the crowds, smelling the sawdust and the popcorn and the animals.

God—yes! This was it. He just had to make a couple of calls; the Grayson name should be enough to at least get him in the door and once he was there he could hold his own with anyone riding the roped, anyone in the world.

* * *

"_Hi, I'd like to speak to the production manager, please. This is Dick Grayson calling...thanks." There was a pause while the woman came to the phone. "Hello, Brenda? Dick Grayson...Fine, good, in fact and you?...That's great, twins this time? You're incredible; you still on the road or...Working from the main office, sure 'makes more sense...So, look, I was wondering if you could use another flyer for the summer?..No, just me but I can work with anyone who'll have me...Of course, I understand, no problem, I can be in Detroit Tuesday...Really? Fantastic! This'll be great...Money? We can talk about that but I can't see any problem on my end with that side of things...Agent? No, not anymore, but if you want I can get one...I though so—save the ten percent...Fax me the contract and I'll get it back to you...Right, til about Labor Day then I have something else happening...Brenda, this is...No, I owe you...Okay, we'll see how much when I get the paperwork and I'll call you if there's anything that doesn't work for me but I'm sure it will be fine...Thanks, Brenda, see you soon."_

It was that easy.

* * *

Tuesday morning he rode his Ninja to the Joe Louis Arena, the current set up. Barnum and Bailey would be spending the week there then move on to the next stop on the tour. He'd decided on a road trip to get there and now Dick was meeting the show's top trapeze act, old family friends, The Amazing Amigo Brothers. They weren't brothers, their name wasn't Amigo and they'd been performing together—or various generations of them— for thirty years.

"Amigo Dick, damn, you're a sight for sore eyes! We were wondering when you'd see the light and get your butt back to where you belong; welcome home, man." The two men hugged, Bill had worked with the Flying Graysons a dozen years ago, helped with the rigging and was almost as good a catcher as John Grayson. "'Shame you let yourself go to pot, though kid—you living on a diet of funnel cake and popcorn like you did when you were one of the rats hanging around?"

"And pizza, you got it. Give a couch and a TV with a six pack and bag of chips and I'm good."

Laughter. "'C'mon, meet the rest of the crew and let's get you up to sped with the routine. You still do the quad or are you too old and fat for that now?"

"I can do tricks you never dreamed of, old man."

"Sez you—okay, put your money where your mouth is, kid."

Inside the huge space the roustabouts were finishing the main put-in but no one, _no one _ever set up an aerialist's ropes and rigging but the performers themselves. It was like trusting someone else to pack your parachute for you. It just didn't happen. The rigging looked set, a couple of men, obviously p[art of the act, were swinging back and forth, testing to make sure that everything was right and as it needed to be to minimize risk.

Bill lead the way then whistled up into the rafters, the aerialists looked down, dropping into the safety net. "Meet the boys."

"Jim, Mario, meet Dick Grayson, he's the one who's going to be spending the summer with us and I'm guessing that he'll be able to show us all a few tricks we should be able to use."

They shook hands around, smiling, making initial judgments and forming instant opinions about one another. These two members of the act looked like they were somewhere in their early to mid-twenties. Bill was late thirties or maybe forty and clearly had the experience chops. They all seemed friendly enough and probably had the usual reservations and concerns about a newcomer walking into an established act; trust and balance between the personalities were key, knowing who would be catching you, understanding their timing and knowing—without any margin for doubt—that they'd be there for you when you pulled out of that sommie or flip—your life could depend on it and it had to be certain or you could die.

Dick knew that they were sizing him up just as he was getting a read on them. If anyone had any doubts, now was the time to raise them.

Jim, the blonde one, spoke first. "So Bill here has been telling us that you started when you were like four or five or something, you keep up your skills?"

"Three, actually and yes, I have. 'Tried to, anyway."

Mario was appraising him. "'You still turn a quad?"

Dick nodded. "I'll turn it if one of you can catch me."

"'Sounds good, get changed, warm up and let's get started; we have a show at seven. 'You need to work into the act."

"Bill talked me through it last night on the phone but it's been a while since I've performed so, yeah, let's get to work."

Three hours later any doubts about the new kid were laid to rest. The quad was in the show but with the safety net in place and Dick had been given a matching costume for opening night. He had the lay of the land backstage, knew where the men's dressing area was, where the food was and could find his way to the showers. He'd be given his berth on the Circus train later, when they were finished for the night and he kept to himself the butterflies in his stomach caused by his excitement at being in front of a paying audience again.

He'd been greeted like the prodigal when word went around that he was back with a show. The Flying Graysons had been one of the good acts, one of the greats, nice people and John and Mary's names still brought a sad silence to a conversation, usually followed by 'What happened to their boy? Is he all right, where's he living now?' which was followed by,'Wasn't he something? I saw him turn that quad when he was just a little codger and I swear, John would just about bust his buttons when he did it, every night.' 'And Mary would just about take his head off every night about it, too—I swear, I never saw a mother as careful of her kid than Mary.' 'Now, come on, they both doted on the boy, you just had to look at them to know how much.'

When Dick walked into the cafeteria you'd have thought that he'd returned from the war. The ones who remembered him, remembered his parents and their act surrounded him, slapping his back, squeezing his shoulder, hugging him and making him know that he was home and was never to consider leaving. It was all he could do to keep from tearing up when Tattoo Tessie almost smothered him; she'd been like a favorite aunt to him when he was little, always having five M&M's for him when he went to visit her. Five and no more—'You don't want to end up too fat or you'll break those ropes of yours, no more today, now.'

God, this was going to be fun, just like old times if you got past the fact that it was a different circus company, his parents weren't here and he was twenty years old now and not a novelty draw as a wunderkind.

None of it mattered, not right now, not tonight.

Sitting backstage, listening to the relaxed talk in the dressing room, smelling the greasepaint, sweat, animals and dinner, watching everyday people transform into clowns and animal trainers was in his blood and something he'd been suppressing since he moved in with Bruce, put it in the back closet, shoved into a drawer and hit it under his new life.

The hairs on his arms stood up and he felt the prickle of excitement as they were called to line up for the opening parade, feeling like he was home again.

Soon enough it was time... _"Ladies and Gentlemen and Children of all ages, If you direct your attention to the center ring I present for your entertainment and edification the Amazing Amigos, Trapeze artists extraordinaire."_

Sequined caped removed, the members of the act climbed the narrow ladders or scaled the roped to the platforms, threw a few simple passes as a warm up then went through their regular routine. It was good, very good and the applause showed the audience's appreciation but then:

"_And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, a special treat; the Amazing Amigos will be accompanied by this evening's guest artist, the Last of the Flying Grayson's, who will excite and thrill you with his death defying execution of the world's most dangerous aerial stunt. He will turn, for your pleasure, the next to impossible quadruple somersault, four and a half complete rotations in mid-air, a feat so difficult and so dangerous that he is the only person on the planet capable of such a feat. Due to the extreme danger involved in this attempt, we ask for your complete silence."_

Dick climbed up the rope, the glitz on his costume catching the stage lights, stood on the small platform while he rubbed the chalk on his hands, grabbed the bar and flew back and forth two and then three times, building speed and height. At the apogee he released, tucked and spun too fast for the human eye to count, straightened and slapped his hands around Bill's wrists as his own were grasped in an iron grip. Landing softly back on the platform he'd just left, he raised an arm , acknowledging the cheers then, taking his urn, grabbed the bar, swung out a couple of times before letting go and turning three layouts on his way down to the safety net.

Bouncing up to his feet, he waved again, flipped down to the ground, smiled and exited off stage with the rest of guys to be surrounded again backstage by well wishers and old friends welcoming him home.

Later, on the train, settling in for the night, Jim spoke across the darkness. "So, is it like you remember?"

He smiled a little. "Pretty much, yes."

"Get some sleep, we have three shows tomorrow."

"Okay, g'night." It was the same as he remembered. His parents weren't here, of course and that was huge, but so many others were and so much was the way he remembered. God, this was so the right thing to do with the summer. He didn't want this forever, but for a couple of months? Oh yeah.

Across the way both Jim and Mario wondered to themselves if the new guy, the new guy who had more experience than both of them put together, would really leave after Labor Day like he was supposed to or if they'd be playing backup to the fair haired boy from now on. The business was tough enough without dealing with that garbage and if he got nosy and started asking questions about...well, two months wasn't forever. They could pay it close to the chest that long.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

Dick loved sleeping on the train, he really did. Back when he and his parents worked for Haley's they rode from gig to gig in the trailer towed behind the pick-up with his dad's Harley loaded into the truck bed. No one was allowed to ride in the trailer when they were on the road and so he spent too many nights either sleeping on his parent's laps or crunched up on the tiny back seat.

Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey moved both of their two touring companies by train, each one a mile long with a hundred cars. Sixty were for the cast and crew, the other forty were for animals and the baggage of a large show; costumes, props, lights and the rest.

The train was wonderful. He had a real bed with a real mattress, his own space which everyone knew not to invade without being invited. Privacy was considered simple good manners and he loved having his own place, even if it wasn't too big. There was something of a frat-house atmosphere in their car but in mostly a good way, friendship, companionship, jokes, shared meals and professionals working together for the same end. It was good, fraternal and comfortable. It was good.

Sleeping on a moving train, is there anything more soothing, more peaceful? Maybe Garth would argue for sleeping on or below the water, lulled by the gentle waves and Roy would make a case for sleeping outside with twenty million stars above your head but for Dick it was the rhythm of the rails, the gentle rocking, the soothing sounds and the peace of exhaustion lifting away, being eased. Laying in his berth, curtain drawn, enclosed in his own world, he was happy and at peace.

He was where he wanted to be, where he belonged, he was accepted as part of the whole and his pleasure, his joy of being there was clear enough that, even if he hadn't been as good as he was at his job, he would have become part of the family just by being himself.

"So, Dick, you gonna try more than just one trick tonight? Maybe even spend more than twenty seconds on the rig?"

"I dunno, I'd hate to show you boys up, y'know."

"Ah**bullshit**choo."

"The bullshit sneeze? What are you, in sixth grade?"

"Hey, it works for me."

He was loving this, everything about it and was having the time of his life.

"_Alfred, hey, how's it going?"_

"_Master Dick, all's well but tell me how you're faring, are you eating enough?"_

"_And brushing my teeth twice a day, too. C'mon, I'm fine. Bruce?"_

"_The Master is as ever, as is Master Tim. They're keeping themselves occupied and Master Tim is taking several summer classes to advance his studies in math and computer science."_

"_Of course he is."_

"_You're in Florida? Have you seen any of your old friends there?"_

"_I did, last night I was over at the Retired Home and saw a couple of the old clowns from Haley's—they were great, telling stories about back when, y'know, back when we were all touring together." If there was a bittersweet tome to his voice, Alfred chose not to comment on it._

"_I forwarded some mail to you care of the circus office, have you received it, Master Richard?"_

"_The stuff from BPD? I did, yes. It wasn't anything, just stuff about insurance and a bunch of forms they needed filled out."_

"_Any word on your posting?"_

"_Not yet." There was some background noise, people talking, music and crowd sounds. Of course, it was a weekend, no doubt the young master was calling from backstage of whatever arena they were playing this week." "Alf, I gotta go, 'talk to you soon." _

"_Please see that you do and..." But the line was already dead._

"Hey Dick, everything okay back at the homestead?"

"Seems to be. Hey, 'sounds like a good crowd today, we're throwing the double and then the triple to build up to the quad, right? Like we rehearsed this morning?"

"Right and if you don't feel right or whatever, just say something and we'll scratch whatever needs cutting."

"Nah, I'm good to go, c'mon."

* * *

The crowds in this part of Florida were always among the best of the tour simply because Sarasota was B&B&RB's home city. John Ringling's old mansion was here, right on the water and he'd put the Circus Museum on his front lawn. Back when Dick was a kid he and his parents had gone as VIP's when the aerialist and Trapeze exhibit opened and he still liked to stop by when he was in the area. The Grayson's, like a lot of circus people, wintered around here, the Clown College was based here—this was Circus City to a lot of people and Dick loved the place.

"Hey, after we're done, anyone want to hit the beach during the break?" They had a three hour break between performances.

Bill nodded, "'Sounds good to me, I haven't been in the water in weeks. Boys?"

Mario shook his head, "Can't, I told a friend I'd help him with something and Jim's joining us, right, Jim?"

"Uh, yeah. 'Helping a friend of Mario's later. 'Another time, maybe tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure, maybe tomorrow."

Two hours later Dick and Bill were on the white sand, slathered in sunblock ('My mother always made me use this stuff, not all of us turn dark as a native like you do, Grayson.') and enjoying the heat, the sounds of the nearby low surf and the chance to relax.

"Hey, Bill, you think you'll do this forever"

"The circus? I don't know, maybe. I guess so. I don't know how to do anything else and I like it, 'couldn't stand an office job, y'know? What about you, you think you'll like being a cop up north?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Because of your parents?"

"Partly, yeah, but mostly I like knowing I'm doing something that has tangible results, 'helps people on a personal level."

"Circus's help people, they make people happy."

Dick smiled with his eyes closed. "Yeah, they do."

* * *

The show that night went well, like most of them did. Back in the men's dressing area one of the office assistants tapped Dick on the shoulder. He'd just finished his shower, wearing a towel and dripping. "Hi, sorry to bother you, but there's a reporter outside who wants to know if you'd give them a few minutes."

Dammit, he was tired and he'd felt something in his bicep pull during a pass tonight but...his old training kicked in. His parents always insisted that he be nice to fans and reporters, insisting that it was part of the job (well, they insisted that he be nice to everyone, but in particular...). "Sure, tell him I'll be out in a couple of minutes."

Ten minutes later,dried off, in his civvies of jeans and a clean tee shirt, he saw two people waiting just outside the entrance. A few fans were there as well, he signed a couple of autographs and took some pictures with them, containing his laugh as the teenaged girls left giggling.

"Mr. Grayson, thanks for making time for us. 'Sorry we didn't call ahead but we just the call ourselves from our editor about an hour ago."

He shook hands as the men introduced themselves, immediately forgetting their names, proving just how tired he was. Robin would have been drilled for hours in memory retention if he did that a couple of years ago and the Bat knew. "What can I do for you?"

"Answer a few questions?"

"If I can."

"'Appreciate it. Okay, for starters, does Mr. Wayne know what you're doing?"

"Of course he does and he's fine with it. He knows this is like a visit home for me." Softball questions. Either they were doing a puff piece of softening him up for the slider.

"Has he seen the show?"

"Not yet, the other tour is stopping in Gotham this year but he might catch up with us at one of the other stops."

"What's the deal with you going through Bludhaven's police academy, that a PR thing or were you filling time?"

"That's real, I was told it would be a few months before I get my assignment so I'm doing this until then."

"You here undercover?" Dick just laughed. "Is Wayne still mad about you dropping out of school and is it true that you two are estranged, especially since he moved Jason Todd and then Tim Drake in—sort of taking your place, aren't they?"

Crap. Dick kept his voice level. "Not at all and Tim and I get along well. He needed a place to live, just like I did a few years ago; Bruce provided it when no one else did and I know that Tim is as grateful as I am."

"But the fact that there were numerous rumors about you and Mr. Wayne but don't seem to be any about him and Tim, does that bother you?"

Screw this. "I don't waste my time with rumors, now it's been a long day so if you'll excuse me."

"Hey, sorry—really. One more question, please." Dick waited. "Is it true that you're turning your paycheck over to the Retired Performers Home?"

"Please don't print that. I'll deny it if you do and there's no reason to..."

The two men exchanged a look. "Okay, okay, look—you do us a favor we'll do you one; deal?"

"I guess." Maybe. We'll see.

"Are you here to find out more about the suspicions that some of the circus people are involved in organized crime?"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

Dick tried hard not to just stare at the reporters but managed—just—to pull it off. Organized crime in a circus he was working in _again_? And things were going so well, too.

"Why should I believe you and why would you come to me instead of just going to the police?"

"You'll believe us when you see the evidence and this is a touring show it moves from jurisdiction to jurisdiction almost every week. Someone on the inside, someone trusted who can move freely anywhere he wants can get a lot more done, see and hear more than anyone else would be able to."

Sure, that was true but "Why are you asking, why not the authorities?"

A pause of perhaps two breaths. "Because we're not sure which authorities to trust and I, for one, don't want to wake up dead one of these days."

"And you think I do?" Dick stopped, considered and figured that this was exactly why he'd signed up for Bludhaven's Force, to clean it up from the inside. "You boys have any credentials you could show me?"

"Sure, here you go." The taller of the men held out his wallet but the lighting wasn't too good and he could have been showing Dick his Costco card. He put it away a little too fast, too.

"Your name?"

"Joseph Frische and this is Steve Windom."

Normal names, nothing unusual or anything about them and about as generic as you could get. That in and of itself was almost enough to raise a red flag for Dick but, though filed in his brain, he let it go for now. And if there really were problems with the show, or some of the people working for it then, yeah—you gotta do what you gotta do. Especially if you're Nightwing. "What kind of crime are you talking about here, how much and how many people for how long?"

"Drugs. The rumor is that some of the members of the cast or crew are working as mules to move drugs around; 'pays a lot better than cleaning up after an elephant, kid."

It made sense if you looked at it from the outside; circuses moved every week or so, the workers were usually kept separate from the regular population of whatever city or town they passed through and had the often undeserved reputation for being low-lifes and scum. In fact most of the people associated with the circus were normal people who were just trying to make a living for themselves and their families; that was a no-brainer. Families worked in circus, generations of family with grandparents and kids and it was like any other community. There were mostly decent people just making a living and, like anywhere, there were always a few losers. On the other hand, these guys might just have been blowing smoke but Dick didn't like assuming, not when his childhood home might be in some kind of danger.

Everything has an underside and performers were no exception.

But it still sucked. Okay, part of him, the Nightwing part was getting a small adrenalin charge thinking about busting a case but Dick Grayson, The Last Flying Grayson had been having a damn good time just reliving his youth—or something like that. No real responsibilities, no stress, no one to report to. Damn, he'd been having fun.

"What kind of evidence do you have? Rumors are crap. Which enforcement agencies are involved and where are you getting this information from?"

"So you'll work with us?"

"I didn't say that, Mr. Frische. I want more to base a decision on than your say-so. Have you talked to the local police or the FBI?"

The two reporters exchanged an amused look; there was nothing quite as endearing that a new, freshly minted, hot off the griddle cop. They were like Eagle Scouts, all trying to be upstanding and by the book. The kid would learn soon enough that life didn't work the way they told you when you were sitting in a classroom. "Who do you think we got all this from, huh? Of course we've talked to the authorities."

This obviously didn't add up and Dick wasn't quite as wet behind the ears as these guys thought but, "Okay, look, you get me some evidence, something concrete to go on and start with and I'll see what I can do."

"You'll have it by morning."

They shook hands as they parted, Dick wanting to know the real story and what there guys were really talking about.

Play time seemed to be at least partly over.

* * *

Later that night, after beers and a BS session with the guys, Dick was laying in his bunk thinking about what had happened. There was something going on, that much was obvious but he wasn't sure yet what and wouldn't be ready to move until he knew more. In the meantime, they had three performances tomorrow and a meet and greet between numbers two and three. He needed to get some serious sleep.

* * *

The next few days Dick went through his usual circus routine; he woke up around nine or ten, showered, dressed, had something to eat and checked the rigging as he'd been taught to do before every performance. If they had an early show, say an eleven, he'd get changed and warm up for the act. That show over, he waited around for the next show, did his job and went through his day.

Tonight was their last show before striking everything, packing up and moving on to the next stop which would be Atlanta for a week then on to Charlottesville for five days. It was a grind but a pleasant one that was in his blood and one he hadn't realized how much he missed until he was back in the middle of it.

He loved this, he loved everything about it.

And he kept his eyes opened for anything that shouldn't be happening, anything which might raise a red flag of suspicion. He made a point of visiting the areas of the circus a performer usually doesn't have more than a passing knowledge of.

* * *

"Hey Dick, you're back again? I though you headliners were too special to wash dirty elephants, man."

"Me? Nah. Besides, is there anything that smells worse than a grubby elephant? Nasty—I'll wash 'em myself if I have to so I don't have to deal with that."

* * *

"Lighting? Where'd you ever learn the difference between a par-can and a Fresnel?"

"I used to help when I was a kid; Haley's is a smaller operation, y'know. Everyone pitched in wherever someone needed help, none of this union stuff back then."

"Watch it kid, you'll be taking my job next."

Dick smiled at that, the plug—excuse me, the_ connector _he was wiring onto the stage light almost finished. "No chance of that."

* * *

"Filing? You're offering to help with the filing? In the name of God, why?"

"Nothing nefarious, I just have some time and thought that you might need some help—or company."

"You're going for sainthood now? Hey, sure, whatever; start on that pile there and let me know when you need more. And thanks."

* * *

He moved freely around the circus community, both when they were playing a city or town and when they were on the train moving from site to site. He saw some minor offenses but nothing obvious or anything which would be worth the attention of anyone beyond the most minor kids of offenses—some underage kids having very small glasses of wine with their meals as part of a cultural habit, twice he saw a couple of roustabouts and lighting crew members smoking some pot after a show and on their own time. Someone had a pet snake they weren't supposed to have.

But he didn't see any real evidence of serious crime. Once in a great while someone's belongings would be missing but that almost always turned out to be something being misplaced. Once in a while tempers would get hot but those were usually smoothed over in a day or two. A few people smoked some weed, some drank too much but all in all, the circus community was a remarkably peaceful one.

And he didn't hear anything from those reporters again, either. He checked, not surprised to learn that while they did have credentials, they didn't have regular jobs and weren't on the staffs of any news organization or even any of the tabloids. They were, at best, freelancers looking for a scandal or something and to make a names for themselves with some gossip or crime.

Screw it.

July was almost over, August was supposed to be his last month with the show and, with any luck, his posting to BPD would be in by the end of the summer.

He felt two ways about that, happy to move on to active work cleaning up the mess that was the Bludhaven Police Department and some serious sadness at leaving his childhood home.

He could come back, everyone made it clear that he was liked, welcome; he was one of the family and management even offered him more money—secretly, of course—if he would extend his run with them but, with some real regret, he shook his head.

He had to start thinking about getting back to his real life.

With three weeks left in his expected run with Barnum and Bailey, he went to his train bunk after a three-pack, three shows in one day. He was tired and felt like he might be coming down with something. He'd had a headache when he'd gotten up that morning and it was still with him and his appetite was nonexistent; unusual for him. Hell, nothing worse than a summer cold, especially when you couldn't pamper it. The show must go on and if you had a cold you blew your nose, drank some OJ, ate some aspirin and did your job.

Opening the privacy curtain he just stared, someone had used a knife, razor, chain saw for all he knew and torn up the mattress, bedding and whatever clothing was lying around. A quick check showed that it was just his stuff which was targeted, the other beds and personal belongings in the car were untouched and another look proved that his wallet wasn't where he'd left it.

His headache ratcheted up about ten notches.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

The circus security came and went, tried to take fingerprints and didn't find any which didn't belong to the car's occupants. The attack was the talk of the show for a few days and then, though not forgotten, died down. For a few days people were more careful to lock their stuff before things settled back to normal.

"Dick, what's going on?"

"Nothing, Bruce. It's under control."

"How?"

"I'm following a couple of leads I have and think I know who did it. I'm working on the why."

"'Random?"

"'Unlikely."

"So you' were targeted." It was a statement. "Someone suspects that you're Nightwing?"

"No, I don't think so. I think..."

"That Dick Grayson is the target."

"That would make sense in this context, yes."

"Do you need any help?"

"No, I'm good but thanks. I'll keep you informed."

"See that you do; Alfred worries." The line was cut.

'Sure, Bruce, and you don't.'

But now Dick knew, or was about as sure as he could be that he knew who'd done it. He'd been suspicious when the men had introduced themselves but with the attack, he became convinced they were the ones who'd caused the damage and invasion of his space. He just wasn't completely sure why.

He'd run searches on them but had come up blank, even when he'd tapped into the Batcave's main computer, but it wasn't like that was his only resource.

"Barbara?"

"Dick, my favorite tumbler, when are you planing on tumbling my way?"

"As soon as I have the time, darlin', as soon as I have the time."

"If I had a nickle for every time I heard that one."

"Uh-huh. Look, I need a 20 on two reporters, or they say they are anyway. The names may be fake; Joseph Frische and Steve Windom. Their credentials list them as free lancers."

He heard keyboard tapping through the line for about thirty seconds. "No known matches as reporters or photographers but I'm getting someone named Joseph Frische as a felon for theft, convicted thirteen years ago in San Francisco, served two years then another conviction about eight years ago for assault and battery, victim seriously injured but recovered. He was released from Leavenworth about six months ago. Present whereabouts unknown and he's in parole violation."

No surprise. "Thanks, Babs."

"Anytime. Hey, Dick? Be careful."

"'Always am. I'll call you when I'm back on the East Coast."

"You better."

Dick smiled as he hung up, hoping that she meant it.

So now the question was why. Maybe it was because he was Bruce's 'son', maybe it was because someone was paying them to be hired hands—which would lead to another series of 'why's and who's', maybe they just didn't like him. Whatever the reason, the point now was to put a lid of them before they could do any real damage.

He was sure that he'd see them again soon enough.

The next night, opening night in Kansas City, he made a required appearance at the after show meet and greet to shake hands with the local worthies. As usual, the ladies, young and otherwise seemed to gravitate around him, handing him outrageous compliments on his 'moves' and slipping him pieces of paper with their numbers on them.

He gave his usual response when something like this happened, whether it was at the circus, at one Wayne Enterprises parties or eating dinner at the local diner. He smiled, thanked them and tried not to blush while he, as gracefully as possible, extracted himself form the embarrassment. It wasn't that he suffered from false modesty, the truth was that he suffered from genuine modesty and had never understood the fuss women made over him, starting when he as about four and found that he could charm a free bag of popcorn or a funnel cake from the midways stands.

He finally settled on his personal realization that women were trying to use him to get to Bruce, to get money or to get publicity. They always seemed to have an agenda and it almost never involved him personally. The only women who hadn't wanted something material from him, be it money, jewelry or publicity were Babs and Donna. Okay, and Dr. Leslie. And his mother, but that was a no-brainer.

Sighing, he shook his head. Once, just once he'd like to, well, you know, he'd like to have something real with a woman. He'd almost found it with Kory but—it hadn't worked out. One of these days, maybe if he was lucky.

One of these days he wanted what his parents had, including the kid. Maybe several kids would be better—one of these days.

A louder than usual round of applause and laughter from the crowded room brought his attention back to what he was supposed to be paying attention to, Mr. Frische and his partner. Sure enough, they were there, interviewing, or pretending to interview the Mayor and his wife while the other one, Steve Windom took pictures. The applause? Lady gaga just walked in; the woman liked circuses, not much of a surprise when you came down to it.

But back to work.

"Dick, here you are. Y'know, I never saw you perform before tonight; you're really good."

"Thanks, Joseph." Small talk? The man wanted to make small talk? "Did you want to go somewhere to talk?"

"In a while, yes, but right now this is good, watch the crowd, see if anything happens. You good with that?"

"...How about tomorrow? It's been a long day." He was tired, sweaty and would like a glass of water—or better yet, a cold beer— and a shower, followed by clean clothes.

"Tomorrow, yeah, I guess but we need to have a talk, okay? I mean we_ need_ to talk." He wasn't happy and the look he exchanged with his partner said a lot; Dick wasn't sure what, exactly it said, but it said something he was sure he wouldn't like.

"Tomorrow at, say, nine. I'll meet you on the midway, just inside the main gate."

"Yeah, we'll be there; count on it."

The implied threat was loud and clear.

The meet and greet continued for another twenty minutes or so with nothing happening beyond the usual handshakes, pats on the back and flirtations. Nothing suspicious, nothing to raise any red flags. Finally the party was breaking up and Dick could legitimately leave the hot, stuffy room.

Joseph Frische and Steve Windom were gone, or at least not where he could see them when Mario touched his arm. "Hey, me and the guys are going to change then get a late dinner or beer or something, you're coming, right?"

"I..."

"Yeah, I saw the blonde hanging on you; man, what do you do, hypnotize them? At least get cleaned up, if you don't mind some free advice."

The two of them walked back to their train car, the lights were off so Bill and Jim were either asleep, which was unlikely, or not there. No matter.

"So, who was those guys were talking to at the thing?"

"Nobody."

"Yeah, right."

"Just looking for some information they think I might have."

"Do you?"

"No."

The train car was hot and stuffy from sitting in the sun all day. Flicking on a couple of lights and pulling down the shades (it would impede the air, but would also slow down the paps and fans he knew cold be out there). Dick opened a few windows then stripped off his shirt, gathered his toiletry kit and a towel and started towards the shower car a hundred or so yards down the line.

The warm water felt good, washing away the sweat, dirt and exhaustion of the day. It hadn't, in the scheme of his life, been that hard a day, not even that long a day but he was glad that it was over.

The two reporters; they wanted something from him and it was more than just some information. They wanted something from _him, _something personal. They were targeting him and he was waiting for them to make their move. They were small time crooks. Well they were small time compared to the Joker or Harvey Dent or one of those guys.

A blackmail thing? Maybe but they would probably have shown their hand if that was the case, why string him along like this?

Working for themselves or for someone else? Who knew?

Revenge foe something? Maybe, but what? No idea.

The obvious connection was that they were oping to get a hold of some—or a lot—of Bruce's money but that still didn't begin the game they were playing if that were the case.

All right, this was getting stupid. He solved problems like this for breakfast and had been doing it for years. This was the kind of case Bruce would have turned over to him when he was about thirteen. It wasn't like this was the hardest puzzle he'd ever been handed to solve, right? As soon as he was dried off he'd change and Nightwing would take on the case, see what he could learn and take it from there.

Ten minutes later Nightwing was, indeed, hugging the shadows of the arena looking for whatever seemed off, wrong, not quite kosher.

It could be anything; a door ajar which should be closed and locked, someone without clearance in a secure area, a bag or package left unattended.

The huge building had been put to bed for the night. The main lights were all out, the security lights were the only illumination. There were a few night guards wandering around, one or two office workers finishing whatever needed finishing, despite the lateness of the hour. It happened and he discounted them after stealthily watching them for a while. They were just making up for lost time when their computers crashed a day or two ago because of a blackout caused by a transmitter fire.

They were legit.

The animal area was quite.

The box office was shut and dark.

The concessions were locked up behind their metal shutters.

The circus mess area was still lit up but was clearing out, the late eaters and schmoozers heading to sleep alone or not.

Everything seemed normal, a small town putting itself to bed for the night.

Then he heard the sirens.

Touching his communicator he asked "Where? What?"

Oracle's impersonal voice came through immediately. "The circus train; fire."

Crap. "On my way."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

By the time Nightwing arrived at the train, all of ninety seconds later, the train's personnel had detached the two cars engulfed in flames and managed to separate them from the rest of the train.

No one was hurt and the damage was confined to those two cars, both residence cars, one of them the car Dick Grayson shared with Mario, Jim and Bill. Those two cars were total losses, everything in them destroyed by either the fire itself or water damage from the hoses to put out the problem.

Because he knew that the local authorities would be surprised to see him this far from his usual stomping grounds and he'd be hard pressed to come up with a feasible explanation about why he cared about something as insignificant as a possible case of minor arson, it was Dick Grayson who appeared beside the local rescue squads and the other responders.

"Officers? Any chance we get inside, see if we can salvage anything?"

"And you are?"

"'Sorry, Dick Grayson. 'The Flying Graysons'. That was my car, well, me and the other guys in the act."

"Not yet, kid—still too hot but it looks like it's pretty well gone; you know anyone you maybe pissed off who might want to get back at you or your friends for some reason?"

"You think it was arson?"

"Yeah, we do. 'Be checking for evidence when it cools down enough but in the meantime, you have any ideas?"

Sure he did, you want that list by category or just alphabetically? "God, no. I mean, we're just circus fliers, y'know?"

"None of you boys maybe got a little too friendly with one of the local girls, pissed off a jealous boyfriend?"

"...Not me, I don't know about the others but I really doubt it. We're pretty careful about that kind of thing; we have to be or we'd get fired. Management keeps a pretty tight lid on that kind of thing—it's bad for business."

"Yeah, I bet." They watched the hoses spray the wreckage for a few minutes, trying to breathe through the stench of the black smoke, the fumes of melted plastic, fabric, wood and whatever else was in there.

"You should be able to look through that in a little while if you're careful."

"Thanks."

"Sure, just watch what you're doing. Oh, and wait til the cops are done with their investigation, okay?"

"Right."

It took a couple more hours but the detectives and forensic guys finished up fairly quickly, all things considered. There had been a couple of witnesses who'd seen someone toss something through the window just before the smoke started. It was took dark to ID the person or even to tell if it was male of female, but arson was pretty clear cut and what the cops would be following up on.

By dawn they could look through what little was left; there wasn't much.

Everything personal was gone. The costumes were burned.

"Lizzie said that if we go over to the costume car she'll fix us up with something for now and, if we tell her what we want, she'll get started on new stuff."

Dick nodded. This sucked, costumes were expensive and the other men couldn't afford to replace them but had no choice, not on top of normal things like jeans, shirts, tooth brushed, shoes and everything else. You couldn't perform in a circus act, not in Barnum and Bailey, without a costume that would let the world know you were someone to watch. Period.

Enough.

He still didn't know exactly why this was happening but he knew who was responsible and this simply confirmed what he'd suspected.

"Hey, Dick, you find anything worth saving?"

"Oh, no. Nothing. 'You?"

Mario shook his head, stoic but clearly shaken to his toes. Dick knew he'd lost that photo of his mother and the brother who'd died in a motorcycle crash a couple of years ago along with pretty much all of his life's savings. Like a lot of people, he didn't trust banks and kept his money hidden and close to him. He was wiped out. Bill and Jim were probably in the same boat.

"Hey, Dick, I'm going over to see what Lizzie might be able to outfit us with for tomorrow, you coming?"

"Nah, whatever she has is okay with me, we're about the same size so just get one for me, too."

"You got it."

He'd known who was behind this from the beginning, the only question, the only thing he didn't know was the why but now, screw it—he'd find out the niceties later. This stopped now.

Nightwing cruised the streets, jump-lining from building to building, pausing here and there to listen with amplified devices if he saw something or someone worth taking a second look at.

He landed in front of a pair of small time soldiers for one of the local crime bosses, almost causing heart attacks. "Might either of you gentlemen know where I could find Joe Frische?"

"I don't know no Joe Fisher, or whoever you're lookin' for."

Nightwing smiled without humor. "I think that if think hard, you might recall the man." He pulled one of his escrima sticks, letting it fall gently into his opened hand, again and again.

"I think that maybe you do."

"C'mon, man, we don't; swear to god. I don't know nuthin'."

He shook his head in disappointment, moving a few feet closer, the slap of the stick in his gloved hand louder as he let it fall with more and more force. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah, sure—right, Mikey?" The other man just nodded then slowly started shaking his head.

"Frische is probably having dinner. He always has the same thing at the same time in the same place; chicken parmigiana at La Cucina, second booth from the back on the left."

"He does? And neither of you gentlemen would be calling him to let him know I'd like to speak with him, now, would you?" The stick continued to slap in his hand, like the ticking of a clock or a metronome set on a very slow speed.

"No—I mean...no. 'Swear to god."

"'Because I'd have to come back here and have another talk with you if he knew I wanted to talk to him before I got there."

The men shook their heads, eyes wide and hands none too steady.

Within an hour he'd found his target, napkin his lap, chicken parm half eaten and a bottle of wine almost empty. Nightwing waited patiently on the roof until he saw the man exit the building, meeting him at his parked car, stepping from the shadows to block his path.

"Enjoy your dinner, Joe?"

No answer.

"I guess you and Steve worked up an appetite over at the tracks. You want to tell me about it?"

Nothing.

"Well, that's okay. I have things I don't like to talk about, myself. What do you say we go over to the police station and maybe you'd like to talk with them, whaddya say?"

"You got nothing. You have proof? Lemme see it and who the hell are _you_, anyway?"

"Me? Just a citizen who has a police badge and is taking you for questioning as a person of interest."

Bull, I was here eating dinner last night, Sammy will vouch for me; he saw me, he cooked my dinner like he does every night."

"Yeah, I'm sure he does but I know you're the guy, well, you and Steve, who threw the incinderary into the train car; you just got lucky no one was home and they station hands got the cars uncoupled before they could take out the whole train and the station, too."

He shook his head a mile on his face, his manner genial. "No proof, my friend, no proof, just theory."

"Theory and security tapes. But the thing I don't get is why you were trying to take out a trapeze act. I mean, what did they ever do to you?"

"I don't gotta talk to you."

"No, you don't. You don't have to talk to anyone. That's your right and you can get yourself a lawyer as soon as we get to the station and the state will even pay for one for you if you can't pay yourself." This last was said with a touch of sarcasm. "But if you don't talk to me I may have to ask a friend or two of mine to stop by and see if you'll discuss a few things with them and they—well, they get cranky." He rubbed his chin with his hand, as though considering what could happen should his friends feel moved to becoming 'cranky'. "That could get—uncomfortable." It was said with a touch of regret.

"That's a veiled threat. You pull any crap and I'll have a mistrial so fast it will make your head swim."

"Yeah, I guess that could happen..." And clearly thought it was about as likely as pigs flying. "So why did you want to kill some circus performers? 'They ever do anything to you?"

Joe knew when someone else was holding the cards and this was one of those times. "Nah, no. I wouldn't know any of them if I fell over them."

"So why?"

"That bastard Wayne, because of him."

"Excuse me?"

"Wayne, Bruce Wayne, that rich guy in Gotham, the one who..."

"I know who he is, what did he ever do to you and what does it have to do with a circus?"

"He killed my father."

"What?"

"Okay, he didn't actually pull a trigger but it was his fault my dad died. I wanted to get even."

"More details." Ridiculous but shit happens, the guy might have some reason to think Bruce had something to do with—something.

"My dad, he was, we were all going through bad patch. He'd lost his job, things were rough. He made a mistake. It was a mistake, okay? He was desperate and he robed some people. He just wanted money cause we needed to pay the rent."

"And?"

"And it went bad. He panicked and some people got killed. Look, I ain't sayin' he wasn't wrong, he was, but he was scared and he made a mistake, a bad one." He paused a second, took a breath. "He died in jail, heart attack."

"Joe Chill killed Wayne's parents, I read up about the case." This didn't make sense. "So why go after the performers?" Though he was catching on to the reason.

"Yeah, Joe was my dad. I was named after him."

"You're name is Frische."

"'My mom's idea. 'Easier to move past the thing, people didn't talk when we had a new name. Frische is German for Chill, my mother's family was from Munich."

"You lost your father and so you wanted to take Wayne's son from him."

"Payback, yeah."

"Wayne was a kid when his parents were shot, he had nothing to do with..."

Dick's response was a hard look. In Joe's mind Bruce was to blame. Somehow. It didn't make sense but that small detail didn't matter. Joe suffered from the death of his father, Bruce would suffer by his own loss. "So you were trying to Kill Grayson."

"...Yeah. 'Came damn close, too."

What about Steve?"

"He's nobody, just workin' f'the money I was payin' hm."

"You're under arrest for attempted murder."

"'Your word against mine. It'll never stick."

Nightwing opened one of the small compartments on his left love, removing a small recorder. "Not really."

Three weeks later he played his final performance with Barnum and Bailey at least for the time being.

"Dick, a pleasure, a real pleasure to have you with us. Any time you want to come back, just let us know, all right?" He gave the younger man a heartfelt hug, followed by hand shakes and hugs from Bill and Jim as well.

"The act is going to suck without you."

"I know it will."

"Bite me, Grayson." But it was said with a smile.

"So, now what?"

"I got a letter from GCPD last week, they have an assignment for me. I report Monday at seven AM. I'm officially a cop."

This was what he wanted, his friends knew that, he'd been talking about it, how much he was looking forward to starting work, how much he wanted to do in the city.

"Keep your head down."

"Yeah, be careful."

He lifted his bag onto his shoulder, it would be strapped on the back of his bike in a few minutes. "Thanks, thanks for everything. It's been incredible—I'll be back."

"Make sure you are, this is your home, Dick."

Turning onto the Interstate, he would be back at the Manor in a couple of days of easy riding.

Mario was wrong, the circus wasn't his home, not anymore and that saddened a very real part of him. He loved the circus, the people, the smells, the noise, the closeness, the intimacy, the travel—he loved all of it but it wasn't his home anymore. It was like going back to visit the town you used to live and all your old friends are there and your house is there and the school you used to go to. It's all these, maybe changed a little—the trees might be taller and the house was painted a different color and maybe someone new has moved in down the street. He didn't live here anymore. He was a visitor, a welcomed visitor but that was all he was.

He wasn't part of the fabric. He was an outsider stopping by.

And if he didn't have a life, a new life, he'd probably turn the bike around and head back but he didn't, he turned the accelerator a little pushed the machine up to seventy-five.

He knew Bruce was upset and disappointed with his choice to join a regular police department but it was the right thing for him, at least for now and Alfred would talk to him about it, try to get him to see Dick's point of view about working f from the inside to clean up the mess that was Bludhaven PD. Meanwhile, no reason to tell him about this; it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it and, knowing Bruce, he'd pitch about twenty fits. His boxers could stay unknotted this time.

He gunned the engine.

Back in the Batcave Batman read the report he'd pulled up from the out of state arrest resulting from an arson attack on the circus train. His teeth clenched and grinding.

"It was Dick, his MO is all over this."

"Of course it was Master Richard, sir, whom else would it be?" Alfred placed the tray with the coffee and turkey sandwich on the table beside the master.

"He could have been killed."

"I find that seriously unlikely, sir. The criminal element was significantly unimposing."

"I don't understand why he'd waste his time with something like this when he was there as Dick Grayson. The possibility of someone making the connection..."

"I'm sure he had good reason, possibly something as simple as his own need to relieve the tedium of touring."

He shook his head, the cowl thrown back. "No, there's something about this. I'm sure he had some other motivation."

"...Which he will share with us if and when he feels the need. Now, shall I expect you home at the usual time?"

6/24/10


End file.
